My scope is focused on the massive, white, furry animal. Despite the bear’s emaciated state, I am an ant in his presence. I hold my breath and squeeze the trigger. The dart lands just behind his shoulder, out of reach of his massive paws. Enraged, he turns to charge, but the bear takes two staggering strides and falls unconscious at my feet.
Lana appears, wheeling the massive steel crate. Together, we attach a monitoring collar to the bear’s neck, and Lana and I lift the bear into the crate and load him into our truck.
It had been 15 years since the flood, 14 years since my mother lost her leg to the orca, and 10 years since we lost Nona to influenza on January 22, 2060. It was her dying wish that I join the conservation effort. I started training the week after the funeral. Now, June 07, 2070, I am center-stage in the fight to protect the remaining wildlife on this planet.
Despite the growth in wildlife species, the government has banned all consumption of animals. This decision has not been met with a warm reception by the remaining citizens of the United States. The President had no choice; our country was in collapse, people were dying of preventable diseases, and Europe held the only bulging wallet willing to fund our recovery. The deal was signed, but poaching became our new enemy, a growing enemy. Many people supported our efforts, but some did not feel it was the government’s right to keep them from killing wild animals to survive.
Now, Lana and I are taking one of the last polar bears in existence to the wildlife refuge in Alaska. The sea ice has been gone for decades, and the locals have been waging a land war over the polar bear population. It is estimated that only 100 bears remain on the planet. 75 of them are in our refuge; this bear will make 76. Our goal is to find and capture all of the bears before the locals have the chance to consume the declining wildlife populations.
“How many does this make?” Lana asks, excitedly. Having trained together, we are stationed on the same base. Her long black hair waves in the breeze as we hurl down the dirt road.
“Bears or animals?” I say.
“Well, both I guess,” she chuckles, “there have been so many I’ve lost count.”
“Well, this is the 20th bear, but in total, I would say 200 total animals. Not bad for two years work, don’t you think?”
“I can’t believe it. I never would have thought that something so horrible could land us in such a beautiful place,” Lana says as she sweeps her arms in front of the dashboard.
It truly is a beautiful place. The snow is gone, but the land left is green and lush, so much different from the parched field of our camp back home in the Poconos. Despite the droughts in other areas, Alaska is so far north that we still had much of the tree and plant species often associated with North America. Alaska is now one of the most diverse plant and wildlife ecosystems left on the planet.
“I wish my Mom could see this,” I say wistfully.
“Well, get her to come out,” Lana says, “you know we’re desperate for volunteers.”
“Maybe, I just don’t know if she’s up to it.”
“Sarah, no one cares about her missing leg. If it’s that big of a deal, she can work in the office,” she says haughtily, “Why are you so weird about it? She’s fine, why are you so obsessed with it?”
“It’s not the missing leg, Lana, it’s the almost losing her.” I shudder, “I can’t take that risk. She’s the only family I have left. ” I slip back to my last night in camp.
I’m sitting on my cot staring at my favorite photo in the center of my tattered notebook. The photo shows Nona, mom, and I nestled around a lit Christmas tree. My hands are full with shards of crumpled Christmas paper, and my face is lit up at the sight of my most prized baby doll. Her perfect corn silk hair glowing red and green, reflecting the lights on the tree. It was Alice from my favorite childhood story. I would lay with my mother and dream of running off to a more exciting world than my boring Philadelphian existence, little did I know I was going to get more excitement than I could stand in just six short years when the floods began.
“That’s one of my favorites, too,” Mom says as the slides the book off of my lap. She examines the photo for a few more moments as if she too could get lost in the memory forever.
Suddenly, she closes the notebook and sets it on the bed opposite me.
“Well,” she says too loudly, “this is supposed to be a night for celebrating. How about you get the fire stoked up outside, and can make us a giant vegetable pot pie. I borrowed Mrs. Allen’s Dutch oven just for the occasion.”
“I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her out her,” I say finally.
“We’re here,” Lana says. Unexpectedly, the truck bed begins to bounce side to side.
“It sounds like our guest of honor is ready for his new home” I say.
We drag the crate out of the truck and wheel the angry bear to a holding pen where he will live for a few months while we nurse him back to health before releasing him into the sanctuary. We slide open the crate, and the bear charges with a grunt into his pen.
Immediately, he dunks his head into the pond desperately gulping water before he dives in, spiraling and splashing, surfacing with a large bass in his jaws.
“He seems happy,” Lana laughs.
“One down, about 24 more,” I say.
“Lead the way.”
